"Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it." So said Sżren Kierkegaard. How apt that Denmark's gloomiest thinker should be called "churchyard". How wonderful to read his work and find a special humour wedged like a thorn in his heart, for as Kierkegaard advises, do it or do not do it, you will regret both.
We were seated around a large oval table in the main room of the cottage in Tranum, a sparsely populated area in North Jutland, about an hour away from Aalborg, Denmark's northernmost city. The fire was burning in the stove warming our cheeks, the Danish cheeks far redder than mine, the red wine flowing swiftly from bottle to palate, the mushroom and turkey stew comforting and plentiful, as we ate and laughed at the appropriateness of this world-weary moniker.
Mid-morning that day I boarded a train in Copenhagen heading for Aalborg. With the thorn of imminent departure once again lodged in my side, I jumped to the invitation to visit a friend and her parents living out in the countryside. The train journey would last about four hours with further travel by bus and then car to a cosy cottage nestled between rolling fields under an expansive sky. It would be my last chance to travel across Denmark and look out of the window at the country rolling by.
When I arrived in Brovst, the town closest to Tranum on the bus circuit, it was dark. I was to be collected by the doctor, who recognised me immediately as I disembarked. We stopped to pick up some cheese from a small van and then headed for the cottage. The cold, dark expanse outside was left behind at the doorway of the cottage, greeted by a dog called Laura, a baby called Hugo and various other family members. We sat at table until late, exchanging stories and observations of life in Denmark, Italy and France, getting to know each other with ease and great heartiness.
Eventually we retired to bed, where I lay for a while looking out of the window at the fields beyond, listening to the stillness of night. I found it hard to sleep, something so strong was at work within me, the forgotten wanderlust has resurfaced combined with the warmth of feeling at home in a place so far away from all that is familiar.
In the morning a brother had arrived from Chicago and a birthday was being celebrated. In honour of this, the Danish flag had been hoisted in the front garden, a tradition, I learnt, that announced births, birthdays and other important events.
For breakfast the doctor offered me some home-made schnapps to go with my boiled eggs. I flinched and then took up the offer, toasting the birthday girl, who passed on the drink due to her new status as mother. The first elixir I sampled was spiced with a Himalayan herb; the second was flavoured raspberries from the local terroir. Surprisingly the schnapps had no effect on me, except perhaps to warm the bones and fuel the internal engine, readying me for a brisk walk in the surrounding forest. With a great big pair of wellies, baby and dog, we headed for the area where the funnel chanterelle mushrooms grow. Similar to the chanterelle in genus, the funnel type is smaller, browner and easier to find. Well, not that easy, one has to tread carefully, nose to the ground, until the mushrooms reveal themselves, camouflaged between bark and earth and reddish-brown leaf.
As we walked back to the cottage along the stream, past the mighty bulls and the "bachelor" cottage (bachelors in the woods - hmm?), the hills and fallowed fields rolled ample and far, allowing the eye to fall upon its modest beauty, biding in the distinct light of Northern Jutland.
So fresh, so far, so free, nothing existed beyond the realm of funnel chanterelles and the promise of more food around the family table. We brushed off the earth and fried them in a skillet, eating them with home-made bread as the light poured in through the windows, blinding us, reminding us that the days are short, and perhaps all the more precious for it.
So this is hygge I said to myself - the elusive word for which the Danes are renowned. This blend of mirth and chatter, in a warm, comfortable home with fires burning in every room, and freshly baked food coming out of the oven, accompanied by banter and schnapps until bedtime. As all good things native to a place, what it is that makes it particular defies definition.
We were seated around a large oval table in the main room of the cottage in Tranum, a sparsely populated area in North Jutland, about an hour away from Aalborg, Denmark's northernmost city. The fire was burning in the stove warming our cheeks, the Danish cheeks far redder than mine, the red wine flowing swiftly from bottle to palate, the mushroom and turkey stew comforting and plentiful, as we ate and laughed at the appropriateness of this world-weary moniker.
Mid-morning that day I boarded a train in Copenhagen heading for Aalborg. With the thorn of imminent departure once again lodged in my side, I jumped to the invitation to visit a friend and her parents living out in the countryside. The train journey would last about four hours with further travel by bus and then car to a cosy cottage nestled between rolling fields under an expansive sky. It would be my last chance to travel across Denmark and look out of the window at the country rolling by.
When I arrived in Brovst, the town closest to Tranum on the bus circuit, it was dark. I was to be collected by the doctor, who recognised me immediately as I disembarked. We stopped to pick up some cheese from a small van and then headed for the cottage. The cold, dark expanse outside was left behind at the doorway of the cottage, greeted by a dog called Laura, a baby called Hugo and various other family members. We sat at table until late, exchanging stories and observations of life in Denmark, Italy and France, getting to know each other with ease and great heartiness.
Eventually we retired to bed, where I lay for a while looking out of the window at the fields beyond, listening to the stillness of night. I found it hard to sleep, something so strong was at work within me, the forgotten wanderlust has resurfaced combined with the warmth of feeling at home in a place so far away from all that is familiar.
In the morning a brother had arrived from Chicago and a birthday was being celebrated. In honour of this, the Danish flag had been hoisted in the front garden, a tradition, I learnt, that announced births, birthdays and other important events.
For breakfast the doctor offered me some home-made schnapps to go with my boiled eggs. I flinched and then took up the offer, toasting the birthday girl, who passed on the drink due to her new status as mother. The first elixir I sampled was spiced with a Himalayan herb; the second was flavoured raspberries from the local terroir. Surprisingly the schnapps had no effect on me, except perhaps to warm the bones and fuel the internal engine, readying me for a brisk walk in the surrounding forest. With a great big pair of wellies, baby and dog, we headed for the area where the funnel chanterelle mushrooms grow. Similar to the chanterelle in genus, the funnel type is smaller, browner and easier to find. Well, not that easy, one has to tread carefully, nose to the ground, until the mushrooms reveal themselves, camouflaged between bark and earth and reddish-brown leaf.
As we walked back to the cottage along the stream, past the mighty bulls and the "bachelor" cottage (bachelors in the woods - hmm?), the hills and fallowed fields rolled ample and far, allowing the eye to fall upon its modest beauty, biding in the distinct light of Northern Jutland.
So fresh, so far, so free, nothing existed beyond the realm of funnel chanterelles and the promise of more food around the family table. We brushed off the earth and fried them in a skillet, eating them with home-made bread as the light poured in through the windows, blinding us, reminding us that the days are short, and perhaps all the more precious for it.
So this is hygge I said to myself - the elusive word for which the Danes are renowned. This blend of mirth and chatter, in a warm, comfortable home with fires burning in every room, and freshly baked food coming out of the oven, accompanied by banter and schnapps until bedtime. As all good things native to a place, what it is that makes it particular defies definition.